


it is a strange thing

by VeryImportantDemon



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Suicide, Weirdmageddon, a glimpse inside the mind of Stanley Pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(the kids call you Grunkle Stan) </p><p>you are ready to die and it is okay</p>
            </blockquote>





	it is a strange thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into second person, so be gentle. For some reason, my first try in second person was just begging to be Stanley Pines, so I let it go. I think it turned out pretty good...

Your name is Stanley Pines _(the kids call you Grunkle Stan)_ and you are ready to die and it is okay.

 _It is a strange thing_ , you think, _knowing you are going to die_. Not just that you are going to die, like everyone does, but knowing the exact hour. You know the time and the place you are to die. It’s not a bad one, at least, you think, dying inside your own mind, but you can’t see the stars. You love the stars. You want the last thing you see to be the stars.

 _It is a strange thing_ , you muse, _knowing when you are going to die_. It is almost as if there is a countdown on your wrist, ticking, ticking, ticking; it ticks with little circumstance until you stop. Stop thinking, stop moving, stop breathing, stop being. The second hand on your clock is your breath. Every single one is one closer to the last. Everything you are seeing you are seeing for the last time.

 _It is a strange thing_ , you wonder to yourself, _knowing when you are going to die_. It gives you time to think. It gives you time to mull through your choices, your decisions. It gives you time to regret. You have regrets. So many regrets. You regret you weren't a better son. You regret you destroyed that science project. You regret you ran from your problems. You regret pushing your brother. You regret not being able to rescue him sooner. You regret that you hadn't just stopped feeling and taken you stupid brother's _(he's not stupid, he's brilliant, and you love him, you love him so, so much)_ stupid six-fingered hand. You regret that you hadn’t been useful, not until this moment. You regret that you hadn’t done more with your life. You should have done a lot of things you didn’t. It’s too late, now, to fix them, but at least you can do this.

 _It is a strange thing_ , you tell yourself, _knowing when you are going to die_. You tell yourself this as you breathe in and out, ticking down your seconds. It is such an odd thing, to be there, to be breathing, heart beating, alive, and then to be gone the next. Like a child, you wonder if it will hurt. You wonder, stereotypically, what comes after. You wonder if heaven and hell are real, or if after your measly existence, there is nothing. If heaven and hell are real, you wonder which one will claim your soul. Maybe your last deed will make you good enough for heaven. You are honest when you say to yourself, when you wonder, that you don’t know where you belong.

 _It is such a strange thing_ , you say in your mind, _knowing when you are going to die_. You breathe out, mentally removing a tally mark of breaths you have left, and suddenly you are gripped with a felling. Sentiment wraps an iron fist around your heart, tightening and squeezing, a lump in your throat. You want the last thing you see to be something important to you. You want the last thing you see to be home, and you grab desperately for something concrete, something to hold onto. Your fingers wrap around a faded picture in a dusty frame and you hold on a little tighter. It is that picture, that wonderful, ridiculous picture of you and the kids and that dumb pig and your heart beats a little easier.

 _It is a strange thing_ , your mind says to you, _knowing when you are going to die_. You think this as the seconds on your clock disappear, never to be seen again. You think this as the second hand on your clock moves in a circle, slow but too fast, too fast. Your hour is coming soon, and you are going to die. You tighten your hand around the picture frame again. You are at peace with your sacrifice, your mind is, but your heart does not seem to realize this. It is gripped with an animal fear. You are alone and you are going to die, and you realize that you are scared. Terrified. You are scared because you don’t know what’s happening next. Even when your life was turned upside-down, you had a plan. You always had a plan. But now, you have no idea what is going to happen, and you are terrified. You take another deep breath – one less – and tell yourself that whatever comes next, you will deal, just like you always have. And just like you always have, you will be okay.

 _It is a strange thing_ , your mind, your dying light, supplies, _knowing you are going to die_. He is coming for you, that triangle demon, and your brother is coming for you to pull the trigger _(you hope he will be late, you hope so desperately that he will be late, because that will show that he doesn't want to do what he has to, he won't want to kill you, and that he loves you, too)_ and you know your numbered breaths, your numbered heartbeats, your numbered thoughts are running out. You are going to die, but now, unlike a few breaths ago, you are not scared. You are now at peace. You are going to die anyway, regardless, but at least going like this, you will die with a purpose. You will die and you will help other people. At least, like this, you will be good for something. You are happy that you can help, that you can do good, that you can be good. You are not afraid of death anymore. After all, isn’t it just like a nap after a very long day? It’ll be another adventure, and oh, how you love adventures.

You breathe in, one of a numbered handful.

 _It’s a strange thing_ , you begin to think.

You breathe out and hold the faded photo.

Knowing when you are going to die is such a strange thing.

They are here for you, the demon and your brother. 

You breathe in. At least you were good for something after all.

Your name doesn’t matter, even if you remembered it  _(it is Stanley Pines, it is Stanford Pines, it is Pines Pines Pines, it is Grunkle Stan)_.

Your name doesn’t matter, but the picture gripped in your hand does, and you are ready to die and you are okay.


End file.
